Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Based on what?”
“She makes eye contact every time I walk past.”
“How often do you walk past?”
“Often enough.”
“And she’s kinky because she looks you in the eye,” I deadpan.
“She doesn’t just look me in the eye—she looks me in the eye, if you know what I mean.”
“Can you stop talking for a goddamn minute?” He’s giving me a fucking headache. My head is pounding.
Elbows on my desk, I rub my temples back and forth.
I want to bang you so hard.
I can’t imagine someone who wears a pink cardigan every Wednesday sending me a note like this.
“You’re definitely firing back a note. It’s the only way to find out who she is.”
Oh, someone is getting fired all right.
“How about I don’t and instead get back to my fucking job.”
“Nah, I like my idea better.”
Of course he does, because he’s a horny moron.
Once again, he gets up and crosses to my desk, shoving me aside and strong-arming his way to the computer. Once on his knees, he jacks me in the rib cage until he has room to type. Fingers poise at the keyboard, hovering.
As he begins typing, he talks out loud.
“Dear Foxy Lady—”
“What? No. I would never fucking say that.” I try to move him out of the way, but he stays put and continues to type.
“Dear Yours. Thank you for your correspondence.”
My nostrils flare. “Are you fucking serious?”
He ignores me. “As you’ve noticed, my underwear is twisted tightly and shoved so far up my own ass that I’m often rather unpleasant to be around.”
Rolling my eyes, I sit back and let the douche have his moment, but there is no way in hell I’m sending an email.
“But let me assure you,” he pauses, “my sensible cotton briefs (probably in a boring white) are untwisted because of your email, and I’ve never felt so free. Freeballing, one might say.” Okay, that part makes me laugh. Idiot. “Your email might be the thing I need to bang the bastard right out of me; I’d like to return the favor. How about a seat on my lap during the Staff Update meeting—which are a complete waste of everyone’s time when an email would serve the same purpose.” He gives me a sidelong smirk and I flip him off. “Please RSVP with a Xerox copy of your ass so I know whose ass to park in my lap. Respectfully yours, Romey Bear. P.S.: Let’s fuck.”
With a wide, satisfied grin, Hunter reads over his email and is about to move the cursor toward the SEND button, when I leap out of my chair and smack his hand away.
“What the fuck were you about to do?”
“Hit send. Duh.” He shakes his hand, cradling it to his chest as he stands. “Why are you so sensitive?”
“Why are you such a pervert?”
“I’m not a pervert. I’m normal. You’re the one who needs to loosen up. Relax, dude. Chill. Have some fun. Jesus.”
“I can’t send an email like that.”
“But . . .”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortably. “But . . . nothing.”
He stands, swiping at any carpet dust that might have gotten on the knees of his dirty jeans. “If you don’t send this one, think of sending a different one. What’s the worst thing that could happen? You actually having some goddamn fun? Flirt? Get a hard-on for something other than a spreadsheet?”
Shit.
He’s right; one time I did get a hard-on when I saw the company’s year-end fiscal spreadsheet. It was gorgeous and sexy.
Sue me; money turns me on, okay?
It’s not a crime.
Hunter’s bear paw clamps down on my shoulder. Squeezes. “Just think about it.”
“Right.” My eyes roll because I have nothing else to say.
I’m not writing that woman back.
Whoever she is.
The idea is ludicrous.
When Hunter leaves—finally—he has the good manners to close my door behind him with a click, shutting me in with my thoughts.
No way am I getting any work done right now; I might as well pack up my shit and leave for the day—but it’s only mid-morning.
Fuck.
His ridiculous email glows back at me in black and white, a parody of a love letter. A cheap imitation of flirting. I’d never say any of those things.
What I would say is . . .
What would I say?
I scratch at the stubble on my chin, not having enough time this morning to shave. The whiskers are dark and coarse, covering my strong jaw and under my chin. Bristly.
What would I say?
I delete the bullshit my friend just typed out, eyes fixated on that blinking, beckoning cursor.
Say something . . . it tells me. Go ahead, you chicken shit.
Me? Scared?
That’s a load of horse crap. I’m not afraid of anything but squirrels, and not a single soul knows about that except me.
Little beady-eyed bastards.
To Whom It May Concern:
As you’ve probably realized, you’ve caused quite a stir with your little declaration. It was unprofessional and could be misconstrued as assault, which I’m sure wasn’t your intention. I’ve held off responding, mostly because there is nothing to say; this nonissue will be dealt with by human resources in partnership with IT, and when they find you . . . you’ll be fired.